


I’ll Be Fine

by bagginsly



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Anger, Angst, Character Study, Depression, Gen, Loneliness, Mental Breakdown, Self-Reflection, Sparring, Voltron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 11:17:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14693091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bagginsly/pseuds/bagginsly
Summary: He simply grabs a sword and lets those feelings guide the blade - not him.Never him.•••an angsty look into Lotor’s life. takes place after Postmortem and before Kral Zera





	1. Zarkon

**Author's Note:**

> my first post :) hope that the few of you who actually see this enjoy it. sorry if it’s hard to understand; I struggle with plot development and character arcs and my writing style in general is kinda wack but I wrote this for fun. this is only part one of likely three parts + an epilogue

_Are you alright?_

_..._

_I’ll be fine._

• • •

  
_1\. Zarkon_

In the days following Zarkon’s death, a sort of quiet calm envelops the castle. As it is when any oppressive, murderous figure dies, there’s a new sense of hope and relief abound in the air. The paladins feel it in the evenings during their dinners, when their laughter is a bit brighter and their hearts - and stomachs - are a bit fuller. They’ve all been in such a good mood that even Lance’s jokes and corny one-liners have become funny.

Lotor is the exception to this newfound revelry.

More often than not, the Galra prince finds himself in the training room, alone save for the Altean training gladiator and the relentless, raging cacophony of his thoughts. It’s dangerous, he’s concluded, to keep those thoughts pent up inside of him - to leave himself vulnerable to building up all of that _anger_ and _confusion_ and _loneliness_ and then, as a result, exploding.

One emotional outbreak is all it’d take for the tentative trust he’s built with the paladins to come crumbling down.

So he doesn’t allow himself the time to truly think, to let those feelings manifest themselves into coherent thoughts. He simply grabs a sword and lets those feelings guide the blade - not him.

Never him.

Some days, his father comes to mind. When that happens, Lotor always takes the offensive, sword spinning and eyes flashing. There’s so much rage that accompanies the mere thought of Zarkon, so much bitterness and neglect and resentment that there’s no end - and no beginning.

Lotor had spent nearly every breath as a child trying to be good enough for his father- to be the deserving heir of the most powerful Galra emperor in history. Lotor distinctly recalls a particular moment of his childhood, when his father had sent him out into the arena for the first time.

The roar of the observing crowd had been deafening, the lights above blinding. With every step he had taken, he had felt the weight of his father’s eyes follow.

And when his opponent had disarmed him, sending his small, pathetic sword flying across the expanse of the arena, Lotor had desperately searched for his father in the crowd, his eyes scared and pleading.

 _Da!_ he had screamed pathetically as the opponent’s blade ripped across his back, as massive fists slammed him into the ground. _Da, help me!_

Of course, no help had come from his father, and Lotor’s cries had grown weaker and weaker as he was left bleeding out on the cold, cold floor of the arena.

 _Look at your prince,_ the towering Galra opponent had snarled to the crowd, sword dripping with dark blood. _Look at him._

The crowd had laughed and jeered, and Zarkon had done nothing.

Lotor had turned thirteen years old that day.

In the end, some Galra sentry had taken mercy on him and carried him to the infirmary, darting out into the arena and scooping the princeling into his armored arms once the opponent had walked off the platform. Lotor had passed out on the way there, the walls of the dimly lit hallways closing in on him.

When Lotor had awoken in the infirmary, bruised and battered and more than just physically broken, he learned that the Galra sentry had been executed.

Returning to the present, Lotor channels all of the pain and desperation of that memory into each and every blow. Sometimes he yells as he slams the sword into the poor robot; sometimes he’s deathly silent, his mind a blank slate save for the lethal focus possessing him.

Other times, his vision is swimming and blurred, and his blade misses the gladiator entirely.

But typically on those days, the days where he thinks about his father, the gladiator doesn’t stand a chance.

• • •


	2. Acxa & Zethrid & Ezor & Narti

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it had seemed so easy for them to cast him aside - as if all those thousands of years of laughter and companionship and support had meant about as much as he meant to his father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pt. 2 :) sorry if it’s kinda short- next one should be longer

When he’s thinking of Zarkon, his fighting is aggressive and relentless and fueled by an endless abyss of rage and hurt.

But on the days in which he’s not remembering his father and the scar on his back - or the upcoming Kral Zera - his former generals come to mind.

When his brain begins to swim with images of Acxa and Ezor and Zethrid and Narti, his role in the fight is reversed, and he often finds himself blocking attacks rather than initiating them.

He supposes it’s because he realizes, almost painfully, that it’s too hard to hurt the gladiator when he envisions the robot as one of them, as opposed to when he envisions the gladiator as Zarkon.

The thought is made more painful by the fact that they likely wouldn’t return the sentiment.

Lotor flinches as the robot’s staff swipes dangerously close to his face.

And suddenly, he remembers himself alone in that spaceship, arms aching from breaking the restraints and Acxa’s voice - _For Narti_ \- echoing in his ears.

 _It’s nothing personal_ , Zethrid had said as he sat there, the world slowly falling in on him, only moments before he ejected her into the swirling depths of space.

And yet, it’s hard for him _not_ to take it personally, especially looking back on it now.

Those four had been his only companions for thousands of years. They had fought by his side. Advised him. Provided him with the friendship he had so desperately craved in all the time he had spent cowering in his father’s shadow.

And yet, it had seemed so _easy_ for them to cast him aside - as if all those thousands of years of laughter and companionship and support had meant about as much as he meant to his father.

He understands.

He truly does.

He’s accustomed to the feeling of being discarded.

But understanding doesn’t make the aching pain hurt any less.

So try as he might, he can’t bring himself to attack the robot when he’s lost in the memory of his generals. He merely grits his teeth - _I’ll be fine_ \- and counters the attacks.

But one day, he’s so disoriented ( _for Narti for Narti for Narti_ ) in his parries that the gladiator actually manages to land a blow on him. He’s flung across the room and into a wall, the wind bursting out of his lungs, and as he pathetically slides to the floor he’s once again reminded of his time in that spaceship, alone and arms aching and the sting of restrained tears staining his eyes.

On those days in the training room - the days tainted by the voices of Ezor and Zethrid arguing over which of them is the best singer, of Kova’s light purring at Narti’s hand and of Acxa’s quiet humming as she works - he wishes he had the will to fight back.

But Lotor watches as the gladiator raises its staff, his back pressed firmly against the wall, and doesn’t bother moving when the weapon comes swinging down.

_For Narti._


	3. Lotor

  
3\. Lotor

One day, in the middle of a halfhearted bout against the gladiator, Lotor just _stops_.

Stops fighting. Stops moving.

And stops running from the relentless whispers inside his head, which have grown more and more persistent with each day he spends avoiding them.

Falling to his knees, he drops his sword. It clatters haphazardly to the ground - forgotten, just like him.

And he cries.

It’s a silent ordeal, and Lotor has never felt more pathetic in his entire life.

Not when he finally emerged from that infirmary, a new scar decorating his back.

Not even when he woke up on that spaceship, arms tied back and the tingling sensation of being stunned still lingering on his fingertips.

The walls watch quietly as tears stream down the side of his face and into the hollow of his cheekbone, giving his purple skin a slight sheen. Even the gladiator halts its attack, sensing something amiss. And as Lotor weeps, he looks up at the robot.

For the first time, he doesn’t see his father’s face staring back at him, nor the faces of his generals.

Rather, his own features appear, and before he knows it, Lotor’s no longer kneeling before a robot, but an image of himself.

The newly conjured vision is in exact likeness to him; it bears the same armor, has the same hair - but in contrast, it stands tall and it stands proudly, no signs of tears to be found and no haunting darkness lingering beneath its purple eyes.

Lotor supposes it’s a reminder of what he could’ve been, had despair and grief not torn him apart in this reality.

The white walls of the training room fade away until there is only his actual self, kneeling helplessly on the floor, and the vision of him standing a mere few feet away.

The vision smiles sadly. _Why do you cry?_

And the words ring hollowly in Lotor’s ears, gentle and somewhat ethereal. Lotor looks up to meet the vision’s eyes, shoulders shaking quietly, and after a moment of silence, he manages to find the words.

“Because I am lost,” he whispers, the sound strangled, and saying the thought aloud causes something inside of him to shrivel up and die. “So terribly, terribly lost and so terribly, terribly alone.” His voice is choked and desperate, and he lets out a humorless laugh as he wonders what his father would have to say if he were there to see him now.

The vision of himself steps closer, eyes full of compassion and understanding, and Lotor hates it. Hates the sympathy he sees in them, hates how this perfect version of himself dares to think it understands what he's been through.

The vision doesn't seem to notice his animosity, and if it does, it doesn't care. _It may seem so at the moment present_ , it says, that horribly kind smile still present, _but you are not lost, nor are you as alone as you think._

Angers simmers in Lotor’s veins, threatening to spill over and burst out, and when he laughs it's out of spite. “I have been alone all my life,” he snarls, eyes flashing. “I have no mother. I had practically no father. The only companions I've ever known betrayed and attempted to ransom me. If I am not alone, then who-” His voice catches, and a moment passes as he takes a shaky breath. “Then who exactly do I have?”

 _Let me show you._ The vision extends a hand to where Lotor kneels, and he somehow feels those phantom fingertips rest against his forehead.

At that moment of contact, his mind is suddenly flooded with an image of the paladins, all gathered at the dining table and laughing amongst one another, steaming plates of Hunk’s cooking piled in front of them. Allura stifles a laugh as Pidge hurls a lump of meat at Lance’s head, and Lotor watches through the haze of his tears as the scene fades.

“The paladins?” he laughs humorlessly, choked gasps rocking his body. “They despise-“

But the image shifts and changes, showing a group of small aliens farming on a forest planet. A Galra overseer stalks between the rows of crops with a whip in hand, and Lotor recognizes the planet as one that's been controlled by the Galra empire for nearly three thousand years; it’s a small, agricultural colony that supplies the Galra military with food rations. With a snarl of disgust, Lotor watches as the overseer strikes a helpless farmer, leaving the poor furry alien whimpering in the soil.

One after another, Lotor’s head is filled with images, each one different than the last.

A mother clutching the body of her beaten child.  
  
Prisoners aboard Galra ships slowly wasting away.  
  
An alien standing before the gates of the Galra arena, shaking in fear.

And when the last image fades away in a blind flash of light, he's left disoriented and feeling worse than before. Only this time, his sorrow is directed towards the people in those images - not himself.

“I… don't understand,” he concedes weakly, looking up at the vision of himself quizzically.

_You do not know all of these people. The ones you are acquainted with, you may not even know well. But they all share a common need._

“And that is…?”

 _You_ , the vision replies simply, and Lotor blanches. _All of these people have suffered a great deal at the hands of the empire. You are the only one who can help usher in a new era of peace across the universe. To them, you are a beacon of hope._

"And how could I possibly help them?" Lotor asks quietly, weariness and resignation replacing the emotions of sorrow and anger. "How can I be certain that I don't become the murderer my father was? That I don't become the person I've been conditioned to be my whole life?"  
  
_You can never be entirely certain about the future_ , the vision replies bluntly, shrugging. _All you can decide is what to do with the time that is given to you. But know this: you are not your father._  
  
"Then who am I?"  
  
And there it is - the one question that scares him more than any foe or threat he's faced in his long, miserable existence.  
  
But the vision does not hesitate to answer.  
  
_You are Prince Lotor._  
  
The vision extends a hand out to him, beckoning. _And you are not alone._  
  
Lotor stares at the proffered hand, feelings of confusion and sorrow and confliction still swelling in his veins. Looking at his discarded sword, he thinks of his father, of his generals, of the many times he's considered whether living was worth the torment.  
  
But then suddenly, there's something new amidst the haze - a feeling he's never truly been accustomed to.  
  
Hope.  
  
He distantly thinks of the paladins, of the countless beings across the galaxy living in pain and fear and hardship at the hands of the Galra, and he begins to hope.  
  
For a better world.  
  
For a better life.  
  
Not a better life just for himself, but for the Galra. For all those under Galra control.  
  
That newfound hope tackles all of the confusion and sorrow and confliction inside of him, and it pulls it into an embrace.  
  
_This is enough_ , that hope seems to say. _You are enough._  
  
A choked sob escapes his throat.  
  
He's always had a gaping black hole in his heart, and he always will. But perhaps it's time to move past himself - to strive for greater things.  
  
So he takes the hand, pulling himself up with a shaky breath.  
  
The face of his father flashes before him. Then Acxa's, then Ezor's, then Zethrid's then Narti's, and then a multitude of nondescript faces, ones belonging to all those he's killed over his father's reign.  
He's almost lost again in that whirling rage of shame, but the hand enclosed around his own tightens reassuringly, anchoring him, grounding him.  
  
_You are not alone._  
  
And Lotor meets the eyes of the vision, finally beginning to understand.  
  
Understand that the path to healing the world might just be the path to healing himself.  
  
With a final parting smile, the vision fades away, and the training room and the gladiator come back into focus in a sudden rush of blinding white light. Lotor blinks rapidly and lifts a hand to wipe away the lingering moisture at his eyes.  
  
_You are not alone._  
  
And while Lotor doesn't fully believe it yet, he can admit that perhaps he feels less lonely than he ever has before.  
  
He lingers a moment longer in that training room, and for the first time in weeks, he allows himself to truly think, not just remember. He contemplates his father's death, his generals' betrayal, the countless amount of blood on his hands, but for once he does not flinch away from the regret that rises with those thoughts.  
  
Instead, he embraces it, just like that small bit of hope inside of him had. And though he can feel that pain struggling for escape, he does not let it go.  
  
With a quiet newfound strength, he walks out of the training room and to his quarters, leaving the gladiator and the sword and all of those faces behind him.  
  
They're not forgotten, but they're no longer the same burden they once were.  
  
That night, he sleeps without nightmares for the first time in nearly ten thousand years.


	4. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the Kral Zera.

_A few days later_   
  
He's still weary when he finds himself at the top of those stairs, torch in hand and a gulf of purple flames burning before him. Admittedly, some of that weariness might be due to his fight with Sendak only moments before, but he doesn't particularly care.  
  
He watches the flames burn, distantly aware of the fact that he's now emperor, and turns to face the crowd of Galra officials below him.  
  
All is silent save for the crackling of the flames and the beating of his heart.  
  
And as he watches each Galra kneel, one after another after another, that same hope he experienced only a few days before comes rising up again.  
  
No, he's not fully healed yet. Healing is a slow process, and wounds that run as deep as his own take time to fully disappear.  
  
But he has time.  
  
And now, as emperor of the Galra, he can finally begin the journey to making the world a better place.  
  
He is not his father.  
  
He is Emperor Lotor, and he has a purpose.  
  
_And_ , he thinks, quietly gazing out to where Voltron hovers nearby, _I am not alone._

  
• • •

  
**_fin_ **

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, first story! I decided to dedicate it to Lotor since he's such a complex character, and I'm interested to see where Season 6 takes him. My writing's pretty rusty, so sorry if there were any grammar issues or if you don’t like the writing style - I'm trying to improve my fiction writing skills and my plot development.  
> also, kudos to anyone who spotted the LOTR quote in the story lol


End file.
